First Quarter - No Blood
by Rambo Kirby
Summary: Animosity treaded their lives, though at what cost? Disarray strangled their opportunities together, but why? Calamity unnerved their feelings, protruding a blossoming that was tediously dying in its cage. Long Candy.
1. Appease the Journey, Speak To Me

**Chapter 1: Appease the Journey, Speak To Me**

* * *

Time seemed to have a special way of manifesting itself inside people, steadily able to make things fly by instantaneously, or last an eternity. For the children of South Park Elementary, time had passed by like a fireworks show on the 4th of July. It was hard to believe most of them were starting the 12th grade. Their years of minute statures were distant memories, packed away in the crevices of their minds. Whether their natural development was for better or worse in comparison, few could surmise—but one thing was for sure, all of them did change, almost completely different to their 4th grade doppelgangers.

The wind blustered through the various trees, leaving a frigid, but fresh scent in the atmosphere. The snow quietly dotted downwards in the twilight facade projected by the Moon, culminating into a crisp achromatic layer above the ground. Despite the chill of the atmospheric conditions, the natural ambiance was angelic and a sight few would wake up and care to bask in. The firm snowfall would soon be turned into slush, as some were waking for their jobs—alongside the plethora of children having to wake up early for their first day of school.

It was 7 in the morning and everyone was starting their day, albeit cognitively deprived due to sleep deprivation. Stan Marsh was sleeping through his alarm, not even remotely penetrated by its irritating high pitched beeping. Kyle Broflovski was up and awake, eating a bowl of cereal and watching the news in his living room. Kenny McCormick was looking for a shred of an edible substance in his house. Eric Cartman was reluctantly getting ready for school, scolding his summer vacation's short duration. The four of them were carpooling together, as they had the year prior.

Kyle was scheduled to pick Stan up at 7:20, and Cartman/Kenny at 7:25. He could afford the gas, unlike the others, who were much less financially privileged as him. Though his parents paid for most everything (i.e. rent, power, internet, gas, etc.) he had his own place within the proximity of Stan's neighborhood. The other three boys still lived with their parents, though Cartman was planning on moving out sometime in the spring—they were all still pretty envious of him, not having to adhere to the idealistic illogic their parents plagued them with day after day.

Glancing through the clips of his eyelids, Stan was able to make out a blurry time on his alarm clock—7:14. He shut his eyes, not realizing the conjecture the time made with the artificial circadian rhythm he had to get on track with. "Shit!" he blurted out, falling out of his bed, tangled in a mess of blankets. Though it took him a moment ingest how much longer he had to sleep, he hurriedly jumped in the shower and power-washed his body. His parents hadn't cared to wake him, seeing that he was old enough to do that on his own; that and they were even lazier than he was.

Turning the television off, Kyle ambled to his sedan, briefly checking his watch to see if he was running on schedule—which he was of course. As he began to back out of his driveway, Stan quickly dried himself through combination of a heater and blow dryer. He didn't care to really look nice for school, so he just threw on a pair of jeans, a white shirt and a fleece jacket. It wasn't too different from what he wore every day, or even from what he wore as a kid, but like his father, he wasn't one for too much change. At the crack of 7:20, he shoved all his school supplies into his backpack, grabbed his hat and ran out the door before either of his parents could say a word. Eyeballing Kyle's car, he quickly dashed for the door through the snow and dove into the passenger side.

"I was about to leave without you," Kyle joked, playfully. "Gee, you look like got hit by a bus or somethin'."

"It-it's just... man, I stayed up late watching this HBO show about two lesbians," Stan retorted, out of breath, dropping his backpack onto the floorboard and buckling his seat belt.

"Maybe you shouldn't stay up watching that kinda stuff," he nonchalantly added to his weary friend.

"Dude, why not? It's totally hot and the production value is way better than the porn they put on the internet," he inquired a little defensive, signaling he'd struck a nerve.

"Whoa, calm down, it was just a suggestion. If you want to watch your lesbian soap opera, porn, whatever, then go ahead," Kyle stated, disarming the conversation. "So uh, looks like you lost some weight over the summer?"

"Oh, yeah, uhm, I just really didn't have an appetite I guess."

"Ah."

"Sorry I couldn't hang out over the break, I was just... busy, I didn't really have time to—I mean, if I didn't have time to eat, it'd be a little hard to make time for friends," Stan laughed, trying to lighten the mood.

"Yeah, that'd be pretty hard," he returned the gesture.

All in all, neither of the two boys had changed that much, really having stopped growing the year prior. Kyle stood at about 5'11", weighing about 140 pounds. His hair hadn't changed much since he was a kid, though it had regressed generously in size. Also for whatever reason, he still wore a green ushanka. Stan on the other hand was about 6'2" and 150 pounds, losing about 34 from the summer.

"Hey look, it's fatass and Kenny!" Kyle shouted after about a minute of light banter with Stan.

"Huh, he looks like he lost a little weight. Maybe his mom made him get off the couch for once in his life and run a treadmill," Stan surmised bemused.

"Yeah, something."

"Hey Franken-Jew, Stan," Cartman greeted with a polite overtone.

"Go play in a lake of acid, you backwater asshole," Kyle countered with animosity.

"I'm hurt Kyle, really, I am, because, Franken-Jew is supposed to be a gentle creature, one that dare wouldn't insult its superiors. I suppose even the artificial Jews are plagued with Christ hating receptors; what a shame," Cartman sighed as he feigned distress in the pitch of his voice.

"Whatever, just shut up while I'm driving."

"So uh Kenny, how was your summer?" Stan asked, starting to realize how disconnected with his friends he'd become.

"Wehm, Ihm gohm mhmhhmhm lamhmhm in the bamhmhmmhh," Kenny mumbled as he explained the highlights to his vacation.

Cartman and Kenny had changed a bit over their high school duration. Cartman stood at about 5'9", weighing at about 175-180 pounds, not quite the same percentage of body fat he had the year before, and especially not as a kid. He'd lost weight after joining the gym in aspiration to become like Rambo, though he was still a bit chubby. Kenny on the other hand was around Cartman's height, but only weighed 120 pounds, due to never being fed.

The remainder of the ride to school mainly consisted of Kenny explaining his sexual endeavors and Stan seeming to become aroused from it. Kyle parked near the back entrance and said the four of them had a little time to spare, gesturing for them to get out of the chilling air and get their schedules. Stan agreed, Cartman mumbled something under his breath and Kenny said he had someone to meet instead—so the three of them walked in without him.

"Ugh, they put me in choir and dance," Stan bitched, praying his counselor would let him get switched out.

"I have about all my credits, so all I have is a few AP classes," Kyle proudly announced, as if he were in competition.

"Oh my god, who gives a shit."

"I do you, you fat piece of shit!" Kyle exclaimed, his blood pressure rose to the stratosphere.

"Oh, wow, what an accomplishment, a Jew cares about its earnings. What's next, a hippie caring about drugs?" he shrewdly replied, feeling quite proud of himself.

"Whatever Cartman, at least I actually have a girlfriend, unlike you've ever had," Kyle irritatedly asserted before walking off.

Stan, feeling as though that might have been a little too harsh, tried to comfort his pseudo-friend, "I wouldn't worry about it, you'll find someone someday."

"Shut the fuck up!" Cartman retorted, pissed off, as though someone had come into his house and stolen something valuable. "I don't need anyone but myself."

"Whatever you say dude," Stan shrugged, walking off.

The first bell rang soon thereafter, signaling the students that they had five minutes to get to their first period classes. Cartman had 'agricultural science & design', knowing absolutely nothing about either. He adjusted his dark brown army style pants and cedar colored leather jacket before opening the door, hoping at least he had one friend in the class to screw around with. He saw Token and Clyde sitting on the left side of the room, so he decided to join them.

Token was going for a Will Smith look, trying to play things cool and distance himself from all the negative stereotypes South Park seemed to associate with him over the years. Clyde had grown his hair out down to his chest over the break, much to Cartman's disgust. His eyes were red and he appeared to have a really dumb expression on his face, as though someone smashed it with a shovel, sans the pain.

"Hey guys, what'cha up to?" Cartman feigned a polite demeanor for the time being.

"Oh, we were just talking about our favorite bands and stuff," Token replied casually.

"Oh kewl, what bands?" Cartman said, mispronouncing 'cool' as perusal.

"Well Clyde seems to think the Beatles are the best, but I'm inclined to believe that the Jackson 5 is easily better," Token explained, setting off a spark in Cartman's brain.

"The Beatles? Oh my god Clyde, what the fuck is wrong with you? Those hippie pieces of shit are the reason liberals are RUINING the world!" Cartman yelled, blatantly ticked off by his opinion.

"Like, the Beatles are the 20th century's Beethoven. They're geniuses man, just listen to Lennon's lyrics, they're hypnotic," Clyde replied to the hostility, unaffected by it.

"John Lennon was a hypocritical wife beating, pathological liar that became king of the hippies and SHAT on rock and roll, there is nothing ingenious about anything he wrote! Beethoven would have spat in their drug induced faces, not giving them the time of day!" Cartman shouted from four feet away, not caring whether or not the class heard him. "And are you on drugs Clyde? WELL CLYDE?!"

"Dude, chill out man, go listen to some Sargent Pepper—it'll cleanse your conservative soul," Clyde leisurely told Cartman, his mouth holding a gaping smile.

"It's not that big of a deal though, really, we all know the Jackson 5 is infinitely better, but there's no reason to shout about it Cartman," Token politely inferred, which just threw gasoline onto the fire.

"Oh the Jackson 5? Please, they don't even compare to real musicians," Cartman added, his temper residing—the bell rang in the background, though neither of them noticed.

"Real musicians? Like who?" Token asked, genuinely interested and a tad bit annoyed.

"Oh, y'know, Zeppelin, Deep Purple, Pink Floyd, and of course, the king himself, Elvis Presley," Cartman stated solemnly, making the sign of the cross as he said the king's name.

"Yeah, whatever," Token said, turning back to Clyde.

"Eric man, the Beatles are like, totally not hippies, so stop bullying them and 'come together' bro," Clyde randomly added, unaware that he and Cartman's conversation had ended.

"They are too fucking hippies! Bullying?! All their music fucking sucks, I don't care how revered it is or how well it's sold, it's garbage; listen to some of the fucking lyrics, they're clearly the result of some dirty disgusting, old ass hippie making love to a syringe!" he screeched, gaining the attention of the class.

"Goddammit Cartman, just shut up already!" a familiar feminine voice taunted him from across the room.

"Oh of course the fucking hippie bitch would defend the biggest hippie boy band of all time," he sarcastically loudly directed towards her.

"Yeah whatever fatass, at least they're actually successful, unlike you," Wendy scolded, aiming to belittle him.

"Successful at what?! Entertaining a bunch of brain-dead hippies?" the class somberly watched, unsure of where the teacher was.

"Look, I don't even like their music and yet I'm able to fully realize their cultural impact, unlike you—you biased fat piece of shit!" she hollered across at him, wishing he'd just quit. In truth, the entire class wished they'd both just shut up, but neither side showed any signs of budging.

"Yeah okay, and I'm Ronald Reagan, good one Wendy, you sure got me. Oh man, I've lost, the great hoe thinks she beat me, whatever shall I do?" he dramatically spat out, laughing at her.

"What's even funny about this? At least people actually like them, unlike you!" she viciously yelled, hitting him right where it hurt.

"People like me Wendy, you're just too much of a dumb ho to see that. Maybe if you weren't too busy fucking trees and losing your virginity to fucking tree branches, you'd actually have a boyfriend that didn't cheat on you and care more about a fucking sports game! Oh and for the record, I am clearly, as you can see, not even remotely a 'fatass' anymore." Cartman snarled, hitting Wendy like a brick wall.

Her eyes began to swell up, she felt the onset of tears about to plague her. She wouldn't cry in front of the class, let alone him. "Fuck you fatass!" she noised, darting into the hallway, looking for the nearest bathroom.

"Wow dude, that was pretty fucked up, I think you went too far," Token said in awe, offering his opinion.

"Nobody asked you," Cartman mumbled, sitting down. He knew he'd made her cry, but he wasn't sure exactly how to feel about it.

"I think you should go apologize, dude," Token commented, still a little awestruck.

"There is NOTHING, absolutely, NOTHING, that'd make me leave this room to go look for Wendy, let alone go apologize to her," Cartman barked, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair.

"Well hello class, sorry I'm late, there was just the biggest-" Mr. Garrison remarked as he walked into the classroom, only to be interrupted by Cartman.

"Aweh, Goddammit!" the young man cursed as he leapt out of his seat towards the door.

"Eric sit down!" his noticeably aged teacher angrily vocalized, though Cartman didn't care and slammed the door shut on his way out.

Out of all the possible teachers, Mr. Garrison was teaching his first period class. While he didn't particularly care for him in elementary school, middle school was pure adulterated hell with him. He believed his existence to be superfluous, as though his time should have ended years ago. Unsure of where exactly to go, not caring at all about the repercussions of his action, assuming Wendy went to a bathroom or something, he set out in an angered transverse across the school. In truth, Garrison didn't really care about him leaving, just about his outburst, hence why he didn't bother looking for him.

Wendy sat alone in the boiler room of the school, lamenting in a reverie of pain and sorrow. Stan had left her freshmen year, just so he could play football more opportunistically. The drama had spread throughout the school and lasted for several months. The breakup itself wasn't the center of attention, moreover the contents of how it happened. Though Stan hadn't told her he planned to break up with her, rumors gave way to the gossiping teenagers of the school like oxygen to a fire. Feeling the onset of her love dissolving into solution of depressive characteristics, she decided to confront him on the matter before any time elapsed further. Much to her dismay, as she was leaving the mall, she spotted Stan feeling up another woman, much older than him. Confronting him, the woman maced her, beat her down to the ground, and vomited all over her; while people all around caught it on camera. Stan couldn't help but feel bad, but felt his reputation was more important and laughed alongside everyone else. He wanted someone more like him, more butch—football loving.

She'd developed into a beautiful young girl, with long noir hair extending just to end of her ribcage. She wasn't freakishly short or tall, about average, 5'5". Her weight was never really the subject of conversation either, at least not in terms of it being gained, seeing her figure was almost unrealistic. With all that in mind, not even her superficial qualities were enough to suffocate the humiliation away. It was such a vividly painful memory, one she relived some nights in horror through her dreams. Cartman was the only person since the 10th grade that'd mentioned the incident, which to her felt like rubbing salt into a wound that would never close.

Contemplating whether or not he should get a schedule change while he wasn't busy, Cartman unknowingly walked into block G. Block G was a rundown annex that only the janitorial staff used, though some students passed through occasionally. He snapped out of his thoughts to peer around, noticing he'd never really been around that part of the school. Quizzically, he inspected a stairwell leading downwards, having never known about a basement. "The fuck?" he mumbled as the stairs led towards a wooden door. Opening the door and traveling down another flight of stairs, he reached an even larger metal door. He knocked once or twice, wondering if anyone was in the room.

"...W-who i-is it?" Wendy stammered, shocked by the disturbance.

"Windy?" Cartman asked, not expecting to hear her voice.

"My name isn't Windy!" she proclaimed, fighting back her tears so Cartman wouldn't have the satisfaction of seeing her down.

"Whatever, ho. What're you doing down here?" he said, opening and closing the door.

"None of your business! Just get out!" she shrieked, not bothering to turn around. Her eyes were glistening from the tears that ran down her face.

"What is this, some sort of hippie sanctuary? Is this where you hippies make and smoke your dope?" Cartman poked around at a few things, looking for any evidence of drugs.

"C-cartman... j-just go away!" she stuttered, bringing her knees to her face. He noticed her subsiding motion, raising an eyebrow.

"Ay! Why don't you go ahead and make me you tree fucking drug addict!" he exclaimed with so much vigor that his body seemed to follow in suit with his voice.

"I'm, I'm not a fucking drug addict, you overweight, intolerant, chauvinistic Nazi!" Wendy squeaked, her voice constricted from congestion.

"Pft, please Weendy, I'm clearly not overweight—I'm big boned, but even then, it's hardly evident now," he confidently retorted oblivious to everything else she'd mentioned.

"Out of ALL the things you could have argued against, that's what you chose? Christ, you haven't changed at all! And my names WENDY, not WEENDY!" she couldn't help but turn and around yell at him face to face.

"Oh... my... god... you're... CRYING! Bahahahahahahaha!" Cartman bellowed, unable to control himself from the sheer amount of laughter that encompassed him. Before she could act on impulse and strangle him, the intercom interrupted the both of them.

"Attention students, staff and visitors! Evacuation is imminent, there's been a compromise, I repeat, there's been a compromise! Please exit the school in a uniform and orderly fashion and enter the black buses out front—have a great day!" the feminine voice announced, inappropriately cheerful.

"I don't get it..." Cartman said, looking up at the intercom.

"We're supposed to evacuate dumbass!" Wendy yelled, running out the door.

"Ay! Stop talkin' about miah ass!" he shouted back, chasing after her. The two of them were met with a locked door at the top of the stairs.

"Shit! I forgot that they lock the door after first period on Mondays for..." Wendy exasperated and trailed off.

"Locked? For what!?" Cartman panicked, feeling claustrophobic.

"Before school the janitors unlock the boiler room so they can setup traps and spray poison for insects and rodents. They re-lock the doors after first period and don't open them again until lunch; I completely forgot!" Wendy exclaimed, angry at her own stupidity.

"That doesn't make any fucking sense, I just came down here 'bout a minute ago—that's fucking bullshit!" Cartman topically shrieked in terror, trying to make it seem like he hated her for breathing.

"Wait a minute..." she thought allowed, ignoring his sentiments.

"What? What is it?"

"It's just, why would everyone be evacuating, and into black buses?" she genuinely wondered.

"Hey... that is kinda weird. Why black buses? The fuck is so special about black buses?" Cartman complained, caring more about the superficiality of the situation.

"Well if we stay in here we'll never find out! There has to be something we can break the door down with..."

"You're goddamn right there's a way, I can't be stuck down here with a pot smoking hippie!" Cartman vocalized, running down the stairs, looking for anything at all to break the door down with. Wendy just stood there, pondering, pondering why he had to be so abusive towards her—she wasn't doing any drugs, and she wasn't _that_ bad to be around, if at all.

He salvaged for anything at all he could break the door down with, though he took his time. Honestly, he wouldn't mind spending time with Wendy, but his reputation was of more value to him, so he never vocalized his desire. He spotted a rusted metal pipe on the ground, cogitating that it'd be sufficient. He raced back up the stairs with the pipe in his hand, speculating why she didn't bother to follow him to find something.

"Hey look! I found this-..." he gleefully told her, only to close his mouth and stare.

"What?" she inquired, confused.

"Do you hear that?" he whispered, disorienting her further.

"Quick! Look behind you!" Cartman shouted, running up the last flight of stairs. The glass window shone a disfigured human, one that looked as though someone had dug up a dead body and used it as a puppet.

"What the hell is that thing?!" Wendy gasped, falling backwards. Cartman walked around her and eyed it through the translucent glass. It was throwing up blood a mere 3 feet or so from the door.

"I... think I understand now..." he whispered, his eyes widened.

"What? What could POSSIBILY be going through that empty skull of yours?" she mumbled as she stood up.

"Zombies."

"Zombies?"

"Yes, zombies."

"What do you mean, 'zombies'?" she questioned, frustrated.

"There's clearly been an outbreak of zombies—perhaps the hippies mutated and became-" he began to give his exposition on the subject matter, only to be cut off.

"There's no fucking way that there're zombies out there, that's pure fiction!" she asserted, full of herself.

"Oh Wendy, how naïve of you. You just don't get it, do you? Zombies are a very real threat, maybe if you weren't too busy taking acid, you'd know these types of things," he informed her, putting his hands behind his back.

"For... the... last fucking... time! I DON'T DO DRUGS!" she cried as loud as should could, startling Cartman and the creature outside the door. It snapped its head towards the window and charged at the door thereafter. It began to pound on the glass, shrieking an awful noise that made the two of them cover their ears.

"Now you've done it, we're done for..." Cartman mumbled under his breath.

"No we're not! Use that pipe you got to smash its skull in, I mean, unless you're too much of a pussy," she replied smugly.

"Ay! Am not a fucking pussy!" he retorted in wrath, firmly gripping the metal pipe with both hands. He built up momentum and swung the pipe like a baseball bat at the windowpane the organism was pounding at. Before either of them had time to react, blood splashed the walls and oozed all over the ground. Its body fell limp, motionless, as though it'd returned to its natural state.

"I think I'm gonna be sick..." she uttered, clutching her stomach.

"No time for that, we have to break down the door before the rest of these things come!" he said, not bothering to look back, hacking away at the door. He shifted his weight from his hips, creating a strong moment of inertia. The door finally came off its hinges about five minutes later, splintered into a million different pieces. "Come on, we have to go!"

Then something hit her, like a bug to the windshield of a truck. Why did he care if she lived or died, didn't he hate her? What was the point in even bothering to have her tag along, how could he possibly use her in a situation like this? Sacrifice? "Why are you worried about me? I'm just a lowly hippie aren't I? Why don't you just leave me behind!" she coyly protested, crossing her arms.

"This isn't the fucking time! If you want me to leave you behind, I will, I swear to God and Clyde Frog I will, don't fucking tempt me!" he proclaimed, sweating from beating the door down.

"Prove it," she stated simply, smirking. He looked up and down the hallways nervously, wiping the sweat from his face in the process. Finally he caved in and grabbed her hand, running in the direction of the main office. "Awe. Looks like you want me around, don't you, Eric?"

"Just shut the fuck up! Weren't you sick just a moment ago, why the sudden bitchfest?!" he whispered, sprinting through the corridors, holding onto her arm.

"Just testing a theory, that's all," she nonchalantly commented.

"Speaking of which, I have a new theory of my own. The zombie didn't seem to take too kindly to you, and you are a hippie, so that must mean it's some form of Jewish mutation—perhaps they've gotten, _too_ greedy."

"Oh for the love of god, Cartman. We don't even know what, the-these thin-things are!" she explained, slightly stuttering due to her inability to keep up with him, despite his death grip on her forearm.

"There!" he said, ignoring her completely. He pointed towards the main office, hoping there'd be at least one person left. The two stopped running, both out of breath. They peered around inside; it was empty.

"Great, there's no one here," she sighed, feeling hopeless.

"Hm, what's this?" Cartman picked up a folder on a desk. "Private: mutilated human animation..." he read aloud.

"What? Let me see that," Wendy grabbed the documents from him.

"Ay! I was reading those!" he objected, pissed off. There was a moment or so of silence between the two, her reading and him scolding.

"Cartman... You were right. That thing was a _zombie_," she admitted in fear.

"Hah, told you ho!"

"I don't think this is the time to be such a fat asshole!" she insulted, feeling trepidation weave its way even further into her chest.

"I ain't fat! I told you, I'm average now, and besides, once I finish developing I'll be ripped," he curtly informed her. She didn't bother to respond, instead she sat down and buried her face in her hands. Glancing over at her only momentarily, he picked up the adjacent folder and read the full exposition of its contents.

"Hm, yes, how very interesting," he thought aloud intentionally.

"What is it fatass?" she asked, not bothering to lift her head up.

"These creatures are in fact zombies, but they are not in fact the living dead. They're mutated humans with highly contagious diseases."

"Contagious...?" she gulped, knowing that the blood of one had gotten on her skin near the stairwell.

"Oh, not to worry, my dear Windy, as you see, the diseases are oral on the very basic level. The, basic zombies, if you will, vomit a pint or so of blood into the victim's mouth, which is filled with multiple parasites. From there on out, even if the person is to vomit it all out, the parasites will have nested in the blood vessels present in their neck," he explicated, as if he were a well-educated professor.

"Wait, basic level?" she lifted her head, her heart pounding and sweat beginning to form on her face.

"Ah yes, there are several types of these 'zombies'. The basic as I've explained, and then the rest are here, all neatly classified in this heyare list," he handed her the paper from the folder, smirking.

"We're gonna die, we missed the evacuation, we have no weapons, and you'll just use me as a sacrifice... We're gonna die... I'm gonna die..." she surmised, feeling tears wallowing inside her. Cartman couldn't help but feel empathy for her, he did like her, not that he'd ever let her know that though.

"No, we're not. We're going to give them what all Jews and hippies deserve; extermination," he contently told her, putting his hand on her shoulder. "There're weapons in the principal's and vice principal's offices."

She felt inexact by his gesture of helping her live, but bluntly disgusted by his premise. The two of them peered down the hallways nonetheless, hoping that there weren't any mutated humans around. He grabbed her hand and they dashed across to the attendance office, shutting the door behind them. Wendy couldn't help but blush, for some reason, she liked how he was taking charge and holding her hand—it was a pleasant change from how he was acting in the boiler room.

"There!" he whispered obstreperously, pointing at the cabinet behind the oak desk. He dinged the lock off with the pipe he still had, which had a small chunk of brain in it, making Wendy gag. He pulled out an assault riffle and magnum pistol, handing the latter to her.

"W-why would the principal have this!?" she questioned, feeling uneasy about the situation.

"Oh you know, never can be too careful with Jews and minorities in your school," he earnestly added. She didn't feel like addressing his stupidity, instead she eyed out the other weapons in the cabinet.

"M'kay, so we have a dagger, ammunition and a grenade. I'll take the grenade and you can have the dagger," he handed her the dagger. She reluctantly grabbed it, her hands moist from sweat. Her heart felt as though it were going to burst out of her chest and give birth, the day had simply been too much for her; so she felt a daze overtake her, pulling her to the ground.

"Weendy? Weeeendy!?" she heard before blacking out, the lights of the room swirling abysmally into a void diluted by her unconscious mind. She couldn't help but hope that she was only dreaming and about to wake up. Cartman didn't want to just leave her for dead, so he grabbed her weapons and hauled her over his right shoulder. He staggered into the vice principal's room and sat her down in the leather chair sitting behind the pinewood desk. Before opening the drawers of the desk for more supplies, he inspected her head for any injury, there was none, thankfully.

"She's so delicate while she's asleep, almost as if she were a flower," he said aloud, knowing she wouldn't hear him. "It's a shame that our differences have to be so infinite, Windy, our personalities aren't that different," he said, shuffling through the open drawers. He pulled out a few pocket knives and a survival kit consisting of a flare gun, first aid and matches. "Dammit, that's it? I was sure there was a..." he complained, looking for another handgun. "Ah, there!" he corrected himself, finding a glock in the bottom cabinet in a secret compartment. He pondered briefly what his next plan of action would be, ultimately deciding he'd lock the door with a chair and take a brief nap while Wendy was out.

Three or so hours elapsed and Cartman's stomach began to rumble in his sleep. "Meh, fried chicken, NO Uncle Jessie!" he yelped as he phased into consciousness slowly. "Ugh, my back..." he uttered as he got off the floor. He turned his head over to her, she was leaning halfway out of the chair, passed out still. He adjusted her body so that she didn't look all contorted and uncomfortable. "Really, someone as pretty as you and as awesome as me, we'd last a life-" he stated to himself, stopping midway as she made a few groans.

"W...what hap-appened? Wh-why am I pretty?" she yawned, her eyes still shut. The movement must've awoken her, unfortunately for him.

"Oh! Uh, huhm, yeah uhm, you're hallucinating!" Cartman tensely faltered, his mouth and throat dried up.

"Huh?" she muttered, rubbing her eyes. Cartman remained silent, adjusting the collar to his shirt, praying she didn't come to terms with what he said. As her vision returned, it took her a moment to realize what the hazy vocalization meant just a minute prior. Did Cartman just call her pretty and say they'd last a lifetime? In a culmination of awe, shock and terror, Wendy gaped at him, unsure of what to say. Cartman gulped in anxiety, feeling as though the room was closing in on him.

"It's not what you think! Hippies are dirty tree molesting whores!" he choked, trying to take back his obvious love statement. She began to compose herself, a sly smile creeping onto her face.

"Eric, if you feel that way, you don't have to hide it, y'know..." she coyly tossed aloud, looking away with a slight blush. Cartman was stunned, unable to comprise a proper sentence, his words seemed to all flow into a mush. She slowly brought herself up to stand, lightly approaching the apprehensive boy. Sweat trickled down his cheeks, unsure of why she was being so seductive—she couldn't possibly like him, let alone find his gesture cute.

"I always figured you had a crush on me. You just never figured out how to articulate it properly, huh? Is that why you'd always make fun of me, despite others in the class sharing the same opinions? Huh, Eric?" she batted her eyelashes, but a foot away, forcing his heart to beat so fast he felt like he was going to vomit.

"C-crush, what crush!? Your brains fried from all the drugs!" he whispered, his chest pulsating. Ambivalence surrounded the environment before him, avidly contracting and contorting, forcing his body to heat up exponentially.

"Awe, come on, it all makes perfect sense—I mean unless you're, gay... for Kyle..." Wendy nonchalantly shrugged, turning around daintily, putting her hands behind her back and humming.

"Ay! Am not gay, you hear me!" Cartman blurted, clearly agitated by her musing.

"Oh? Then, uh, why don't you, prove it?" she shyly daubed, looking in no particular direction, her body facing his, hands behind her back still. "He may have the same disgusting attitude, but he's matured physically... maybe he's not all ash underneath..." she thought to herself, still playing demure.

"Prove it!? How the hell do you expect me to do that?!" he vented, putting on a facade of anger to hide his attraction for her.

"You could, oh I dunno, kiss me?" she innocently added, still dawdling. Cartman froze, kiss her? They'd kissed before, during the whole flag ordeal, but go out of his way to do it himself? What if she was just playing with his emotions, what if it was all just a ploy to break him and his dogmatic charade? She sighed, "Guess you're gay for the 'Jew' then, nevermind." Before she could hum any further, he grabbed her by her hips and pulled her in for a concise suction on the lips.

"There, now, don't ever say I'm gay for that penny stealing Jew boy ever again!" he fumed, his hands still on her hips.

"What, you call that a kiss?" she raised an eyebrow, smirking. "You don't have to pretend to kiss me so I won't think you're gay, I won't tell anyone, well maybe Be-" she began, only to be cut off by a sloppy, passionate embrace. He ran his fingers across her waistline, moving them down to her thighs, manifesting butterflies in her stomach. She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him snugly, as if the world would end if she ever let go. Their lips brushed against each other compulsively, as if pulling away would set off a bomb.

As they toppled onto the desk beside them, footsteps could be heard in the hallway. The steps made their way towards the vice principal's office, hearing a few sensual noises. Suddenly the two of them were interrupted by pounding on the door, pounding complimented by a demonic screeching that pained their ears.

"Shit! I completely forgot about those Jewombies!" he yelled, pulling away from her and reaching for the riffle on the floor. He steadily aimed the nose of the gun at the window, breathing heavily from his make-out session. Boom! The thundering shot exploded from the tunnel and shattered the zombie's head into incoherent pieces of blood and brain. Wendy closed her eyes, feeling a tab bit ill. "I don't think we should stay here any longer." She nodded and the two of them grabbed their supplies, heading out towards the main exit.

There weren't any signs of the monstrous creatures, it was if only a few had gotten into the school through the windows. Cartman's eyes shifted alongside the opposite walls, holding his riffle in one hand and Wendy's in the other. They shuffled alongside the adjacent walls leading up to the main entrance, trying to be as minute as possible. He let go of her hand quickly to open the door, peering rapidly at the outside vicinity. Ushering her out, they stood at the bottom of the stairs, unsure of what to do next.

"I don't see any... how odd," he commented, taking her hand once more.

"Maybe we should make a break for my house? There's food and I could get some clothes to change and pack," she suggested, still feeling weary from seeing two of those things' heads explode.

"Yeah, then we can go over to my house and barricade the outside—I wouldn't doubt that the hoards all swarm at night," he concocted. She nodded in both acknowledgment and agreement. She wondered if their parents had evacuated without them, pondering all the possible scenarios for where they might be.

Cartman felt auspicious about the situation, in reverence to the prospect of he and Wendy having a flare between them. The invasion, possible death of billions, loss of friends and family, none of it bothered him—that is except if something happened to her, so he kept her close to him, making sure none of those greedy Jewish zombies caught him off guard.

Questioningly, the both of them were unsure as to why the streets were so deserted. Sure they knew everyone had evacuated, but the reason they did wasn't anywhere to be found. The eerie peculiar ambiance seemed to wrap around them like a flame to gasoline, constricting and growing every moment of time passing. If the main portions of the hoard were nocturnal, they didn't have much time at all, seeing that it was only a few hours until sundown. Cartman couldn't help but wonder in his mind, just why were only a few of them out in the mists of the day?

Wendy's house blurred in the distance, their eyesight strained due to the cognitive deprivation they were beginning to suffer. Their paces were diminishing, sans the fact their destination was less than a block away. She could feel herself falling behind; her muscles were becoming numb from the weather. He too was becoming sluggish; his pace matched hers rhythmically.

"We're... here..." she breathed, unlocking the door with her key; she staggered through the doorway, dropping her weapons and landing promptly on the couch. Cartman grabbed the key from its hole and locked the door behind him, staring at the nearly incapacitated Wendy.

"We're not goin' make it to miah house quite clear-ary, so we should lock the place up 'till mornin'," he confidently concluded, his hands behind his back.

"Yeah... sure..." she replied, nodding off, exhausted. He took that as the insinuative to make sure they'd be safe for the remainder of day. Dressers were moved in front of windows, chairs were nailed to windowpanes and miscellaneous furniture was overturned for the betterment of their survival.

"Wen-" he began, but stopped himself as he laid eyes upon her sleeping body. He smiled to himself, admiring how adorable she looked when she was asleep. Breaking fourth his reverie, he carefully picked her up and carried her to bed—trying sincerely not to wake her. As he walked up the stairs, he felt her heartbeat pulse through his arms, making his stomach churn with butterflies; he couldn't help but blush.

Morning arose and much to Cartman's surprise, Wendy was still asleep. He'd slept on a chair adjacent to the bed with his riffle glued to his hands, feeling as though he were guarding a scarcely beautiful treasure. He didn't hear a single creature stir for the moments of the night he was up, in fact, the house wasn't troubled with any attempts of a break in. He felt uneasy about the situation, as though something wasn't right, as though he was being played with like a toy in the hand's of a child. Several times he inspected the house, finding zero signs of anything attempting to defile them.

She awoke to an empty room, experiencing a combination of wonderment and fear. The wonderment entailed the likes of ignorance on his whereabouts, but the fear, that was something that truly bothered her. She was scared he was gone. Furthermore, she was scared that she was afraid. It hit her like a brick to her face, she liked, if not loved, Eric Cartman—why? Recalling the events of the day afore, she felt as though she had gone through an elaborate surreal dream. Then another brick slammed her square in her jaw. He was nice to her; he hadn't called her a hippie, a drug addict, a bitch, a ho, a whore, anything! She got a vibe sometimes that he had a crush on her, namely because of how passionately he contested her, but she didn't think it would blossom into anything real. Secretly she'd always hoped that deep down he wasn't such an intolerant asshole and that he was a sweet boy that just felt oppressed or something, and needed somebody to love. Maybe she was right, she wasn't sure. All she knew was that deep down he really liked her and didn't know how to express it, but now he had. Was it right to have feelings for him back? Was he the same racist, sexist prick at heart? Would he treat her indefinitely different all the time, striving not to harm her delicate feelings? Not that she was weak, but to someone she loved, she'd be vulnerable, open to the elements—something that scared her very much.

"Hey," he interrupted her cogitation.

"Oh, uh, hey," she snapped to him at the door, her heart racing.

"How're you feeling?" he asked sympathetically, approaching her.

"Uh, fine, I guess," she mindlessly said, too fixated on his movements.

"Y'know, Windy, the weirdest thing happened. No zombies tried to attack us!" he explained, cupping his chin in his hands.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, that's kinda weird," she forced out, gazing at his face.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he inquired, feeling as though something was wrong.

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine. I just need, uh, a shower is all," she lied, making an excuse to gather her thoughts. He nodded and peered down through the window in her room.

"C'mon you Jew-rat bastards, I'll blow your mother fuckin' heads off!" he screamed inwards, as though people could hear him think.

"Snap out of it Wendy! It's just Cartman! Sure he's being nice and all, but that doesn't give you the right to go all lala over him!" she whispered to herself, turning the knob to the shower on. He was nice to her, empathetic even, something she'd never even remotely observed from him. Was this the same boy she grew up with? She washed her hair, asking herself if she should open up any further to him. The more she dwelled on the topic, the more unsure of herself she became. Then something hit her in the chest, like knife melting through the smooth surface of a bar of butter. What if her family and friends were dead? Had she become so wrapped up in Cartman's actions that she lost thought of her loved ones? Did she take priority in Cartman over her family and friends—did she really love him?

Setting the riffle against the wall, he slumped to the ground, starting to reflect on days afore. He'd always had a crush on Wendy, well since third grade at least. He was afraid of being hurt, so all he ever did was show his affection by picking on her. He noticed that now, for whatever reason, he wasn't afraid to open up to her; he wasn't afraid of getting hurt. Another thought struck his mentality like a bolt of lighting starting a forest fire. He'd only been afraid of the rejection associated with emotional pain, but not so much the possibilities aloof afterwards. It was confidence—he was confident that he'd never lose her, because he'd fight till the bitter end for her love, even if it killed him.

"E-eric...?" she squeaked with a towel around her body and hair.

"Yes, Wendy?" he gazed at her silky pale skin.

"C-can we, u-uhm, talk once I d-dry off?" she trembled, afraid this was an elaborate joke to psychologically torment her.

"Why, of course, Wendy—we can talk, when you dry off," he said with his eyes unfocused, almost as though he were scheming something.

Taken aback by his awkward tone, she scurried to her dresser and closet to grab an outfit to bring back into the bathroom. Her heart struggled not to vomit itself up her throat, clutching her towel. Maybe he was going to hurt her—maybe he was going to use her for sex; she'd commit suicide if she were raped, it was unavoidable considering the circumstances; she prayed silently for her intuition to be wrong. She peeked through the crevasse of the door, spotting the handgun he'd given her; that was her key to truth.

"O-okay, Eric..." she said, beginning to brush her hair.

"Yes?" he returned, his tone mechanical.

"Listen, I need to know how you feel about me. We're probably the last people in South Park, and even if this is a joke to you, even if I am, we'll still have to work together to survive. One thing I can't handle though, is being lied to... being used, all for the sake of humiliating me, or any selfish motives; or any motive really—love seems to be the only applicable motivation I can think of. So I'm only going to ask you once: Eric, do you feel anything close to love for me, if not love itself?" she drafted the strength to expedite her exposition. Her tone of voice was unwavering, full of strong passionate pitches, but filled with tears near the end.

"Wendy I-" his voice changed from its eerie delivery; his voice stammered as he gulped, being interrupted by Wendy placing the pistol mouth's brim on her temple. "WAIT!"

"I need to know the truth. I've been abused enough by men in my life, though I've never told anyone of such. It doesn't matter though. Either way, it just doesn't matter," a tear curved down her cheek.

"A-at least p-p-put the gun down first! What if you pull it on accident!?" he panicked, sweating profusely. She complied, nodding timidly.

He sighed, taking in a deep breath, hoping he'd be able to articulate himself properly. "Wendy, for almost all the time I've known you, I've liked you. When we had that flag debate thing, I felt as though I wouldn't have to hurt you to express my affection; however, you soon thereafter said you didn't have any feelings for me left. That killed me inside, as though I'd had my scrotum ripped over my head. I was afraid of rejection, so I kept forcing my views on you to hurt you—I knew I could have logically swayed you from certain topics, but my goal was to cause you pain and suffering," her hand began shaking and she lifted the gun somewhat off the ground. "Over the past day though, you said it all, you caught me admiring you. Full of fear and distress, I couldn't talk my way out of it. I was sure you'd laugh at me or something worse, but you didn't. You returned the feelings, which made me feel like my life had meaning again. I'd only lived for topical reasoning, nothing deep, besides the jealousy of others having you," he sat next to her on the bed and continued, "In other words Wendy, I've always loved you, I'm just a fuck up, and I'm sorry."

She dropped the gun and couldn't believe her ears, she felt as though the Sun had been proven as an imaginary object. In shock, she leaned into his ear and asked one question with her tear soaked eyes closed, "Am I still a hippie bitch ho?"

Choking on his saliva, he coughed gently into his arm. "No, I just exaggerated a lot of what you believe in. A hippie is the last thing you objectively are, I hope we can compromise on some things, so w-" he began, stroking her damp noirette hair, but was interrupted by a large sonic boom. The two of them fell off the bed as the ground began to rattle.

A heinous roar could be heard from outside the dainty house. Pushing himself up, he grappled with the bed's frame, asserting his legs onto the ground vaguely. Extending an arm, he promptly brought her up along his side. Equilibrium was ambitious to establish, as the ground quivered convulsively. Somehow managing to make it to the windowsill, their eyes fell upon a terrifying sight.

"It's a fucking tank!" he whispered rather too noisily.

"A what?" she questioned, grabbing onto the sill.

"It's just like in Left for Dead—they're nicknamed tanks because of their strength and durability. There's no way we can kill one with our weapons, but, man it's sure as fuck tearing up the neighborhood!" he gulped and focused on its movements. It hadn't noticed their presence, but it sure as hell looked hungry. It ripped support beams from houses, rummaging through the various onslaughts of rubble.

"So what're we supposed to do? Sit here and hope it doesn't find us?"

"No, it'll find us then," he blankly added.

"Okay... that totally helps," she rolled her eyes, becoming somewhat agitated.

"Aye! The hell am I supposed to do! A riffle isn't going to do FUCKING SHIT!" he fumed, trying to keep his voice down, but ultimately failing.

"You... don't have to yell..." she maundered with disdain amongst her breath.

"H-hey... I didn't mean... I'm sorry," he couldn't help but notice the decreased expression of pestilence in her face. Ignoring his apology, she gazed out the window at the beast running on all fours. It had to be at least 10 feet tall, maybe 500 pounds or so at that. It looked as though its skin had been burned off, due to how pink its pigment resided. It was so repulsive to lay eyes upon, but she was hurt; she was hurt by something so simple. That was what she was afraid of—if he'd still act in the same way. "I said I was sorry... I really didn't mean to yell, I'm just worried is all..."

"Worried?" she snapped out of her idle state and looked him in the eyes.

"Well, yeah," he answered, slightly mazed by her inquisition.

"What do you mean by that?"

"It's just that I don't want anything to happen to you, and this is stressful," he sighed with dolefulness.

"It's okay, I didn't mean to overreact..." she felt a cloud of rain pour over her for being so touchy.

Before either of them could muster up another word, the ground vibrated off center, throwing them both into the corner adjacent. Furniture skidded across the carpet, smashing into the corners; he held her hermetically so the damage to her would be minimal. The room soon pivoted downwards, the floor breaking up upon impact.

She curled into his body, shivering from the calamity. They both coughed meagerly, opening their eyes to asses the damage. Parts of the roof hung from thin strips of wire and insulation, whereas the adjoining walls clumped together like broken twigs. They could see the demonic travesty melting its way through the destruction, no less than five yards away. She pressed her head gently onto his shoulder, shutting her eyes. Her shivering arms wrapped around his sides—she sniffled once or twice. Baffled by her sudden timid emotional climate, he peeked around the detritus; thereafter eying the magnum. He bent forward and grabbed the gun, much to her dismay.

"No... don't..." she said under her breath, standing up behind him. He aimed the barrel at the beast's head. "Please..."

"Only if it sees us," he calmly whispered back. She noticed blood trickling down the coattail of his jacket. It maneuvered in droplets to the ground, riveting the outside world's materialism. Caught under a bridge of troubled blood, she felt herself unable argue with him. The creature slammed its chest, bellowing at nothing in particular. "You son of a bitch."

It sniffed the air instinctively, its tiny head tilting from left to right. Wendy closed her eyes, petrified of what was about to become of them. Turning towards their direction, Cartman steadied his finger on the trigger and pulled back the hammer. Taking a step towards them in the smog, smelling his blood's aroma, it became clear it couldn't see them. Utilizing this to her advantage, Wendy grabbed a piece of rubble and chucked it through a hole in the roof. Hearing the thud opposite to him outside, it walked carefully towards a hole in the wall, sniffing for signs of food.

"Eric! Lemme see your arm!" she whispered harshly, grabbing a large piece of metal from the inside of the drywall aside her.

"Huh?" he looked back, lifting an eyebrow. With no time to waste, she knelt beside him and covered the object in his blood. Taking several steps back, she propelled her arm backwards, launching the object through the same hole. It crashed into the ground, making a much louder sound. Hearing the abrupt landing, it dismissed the mystery and darted out of the room.

"Now! We have to go!" she grabbed her suitcase that lied underneath what was her bed. They rushed through what looked to be the wreckage of her living room. Their steps were uneven and faltering. Nails bolted outwards, pieces of plywood and drywall littered the floors, furniture was anything but furniture; her house was an abstract painting of ruin and disarray. Approaching the proximity of a break in the structure, the two dashed out—they grasped one another's hands with no intention of ever letting go.

They dove behind an overturned van, perking their ears up for the slightest vibration. "There!" he pointed from beside the van. His finger's trajectory led to the crevasse they'd just emerged from. It thundered incessantly, its arms crashing into the ground as though cars were falling from the sky.

"On three we should make a break for the fence there and try and make it to my house," he suggested, the revolver nested neatly in the palm of his left hand; her's in the other.

"I don't think we really have a choice..."

"Alright then, on three,"

"One..." she took a deep breath.

"Two," they positioned themselves.

"Three!" they jolted onto the sidewalk before them, charging through the grass and jumping over an occasional wall.

"Quick! Throw your suitcase over!" he ushered her, looking back at their deaths. It wasn't there anymore. "Hurry! It's even worse now that we can't see it!"

"It's too heavy!" he grabbed the luggage from her and tossed it to the other side of the chain-linked fencing. They both followed in suit, rejoining their hands as they glanced behind them.

"Where do you think it went?"

"Wait... Eric, your arm..." she stopped running, seemingly dazed. "Your arm! It doesn't care because it knows that we'll eventually run out of energy, while it'll have a nice long blood-trail to follow to dinner!" she conjectured in horror, gulping her spit with anxiety.

"Shit! The hell are we supposed to do!?" he exclaimed, panicking in profusion.

"We have to stop the bleeding first of all," she spat out hurriedly, unzipping her bag. She grabbed a blouse and immediately lifted his sleeve up. "Oh my..." she held her hand over her mouth.

"Oh... fuck. I can see the bone! Why the fuck didn't I feel that!? Felt like a fucking cat scratched me or somethin'!" he yelled, more concern disillusioned in himself.

"Okay, okay, okay! Quiet!" she nervously shushed, wrapping the blouse around his arm snugly. "Okay, that should absorb most of the bleeding, for the time being, we absolutely HAVE to make it your house within an hour or so," she explained, the houses around her collapsing inwards on her. Even the trees seemed to lurch at her.

"It's about a mile from the block over, we'll have to sprint most of the way," he looked at the grass beneath him, struggling in the cold air.

"Alright, but, Eric?" her body swayed to him.

"Huh? Yeah?"

"This," she kissed him modestly on his lips, caressing his cheeks with her palms. His cheeks pulsed a dark pink, contrasting his expression of awe. "Let's get going."

The pair exhausted their bodies, striding across the pavement as fast as their legs would let them. Following them from a far distance, the tank tardily matched their pace, although its path began to alter from theirs over time. The thick ordure of Cartman's blood was fading, making the hunter yield to concentrate multiple times. Despite its diminutive brain magnitude, it hoped that their eventual whereabouts would lead to a feast.

"T-th...th-th...there!" he cried, reaching for the knob.

"Fin...finally!" she gaped, her stomach kicking into her hips achingly.

"O-okay, I pray to God th-that we weren't f-fuc-ucking follo-wed by anything," he wheezed distressingly, sweat soaking his chest. He locked the door behind him and keeled over on the couch in front of him.

"H-hey... What're we s-su-supposed to do n-now?" she joined him on the couch, slowly inhaling and exhaling in ample bursts.

"W-well, I uh, have a s-security s-system I shou-should enable..."

"Oh?" her face twisted. He rolled off the coach and wavered her towards the entrance to his basement.

"Herah we have the latest in securatah systems," he composed himself as he presented her with a large control panel.

"When... did you get this? Why?" her mind hung empty, fascinated by the fact he managed to own what seemed to be a military defense dashboard.

"Oh well, it's a looooooong story involving mother's 'clients' and extortion. As for why, well, just in case today happened," he folded his hands behind his back, grinning.

"So... What's it do?" her tone was blunt, but conserved.

"Ah, I'm glad you asked, my dear Wendeh," she winced. "The buttons on the left hyah, attribute to the monitor theyar. They activate the 35,000 landmines around the neighborhood."

"...35,000... How the hell did you get anyone to buy into that!? Weren't you concerned with innocent people dying—your friends?!" her mouth gaped in astonishment.

"I had them installed overnight, but that's neither hyarh nor theyar, as their sole purpose was an invasion that'd threaten my life," he concluded modestly.

"You only care about yourself, don't you," her voice chilled his spine—venom sinking into his bone marrow and eating away at his thoughts.

"N-no! That's not true, things change Wendy, you should know that of all people," he placed his hand on her shoulder, moving it down to her own. The pigment of her face began to flush, she'd been proven wrong again.

"Now, they're activated. They're a culmination of proximity, remote and time. The proximity minds are spaced out appropriately, only 10 feet under ground. The remote mines are let off by trigger, mounted within various street objects, such as mailboxes and Butter's house. The timed mines however, are not activated, as they are special mines buried about 60 feet underground, set to blow at the designated time I choose. They'll all go at once, or in sequences according to position, boy, but when they do, this neighborhood won't be standing," he concluded triumphantly. She was impressed with his handiwork, but didn't want to encourage it.

"Uhm, what about the rest of this stuff?" she pointed to the middle and right consoles.

"Ah, this terminal controls the turrets, cleverly disguised as natural objects," in truth it was all incredibly sloppy, a six foot turret with three leaves and a twig duct taped over it, but no one seemed to notice. "They're equipped with cameras, so we can see just what's outside, and they come fully adjusted with artificial intelligence, firing at anything that moves."

"What if someone tries to seek refuge here?" she felt her heart sink.

"An alarm will sound if there is a breach within vicinity, at which point the creature will be prompted to remain still. From there we can distinguish its features. These surround the house in an almost perfect 360 radius and then some around the blocks. Now this last one is the home armory. It basically armors the entire house in a thick coat of steel from about a foot away outside—there's cameras built into the upper deck of it for aerial vantage points. The rest of the buttons really just add to the customization. Listen closely," he pressed the button, holding it for three seconds.

"I don't-"

"Now," he pulled a small blue lever from underneath the dash. The walls beside them shook somewhat, creating a small vibration on the objects concealed in the house.

"So, what if they get in somehow?" she interrupted his solaced boasting.

"Oh, not to worry. Even if they did somehow manage to break in, there's an armory of weapons behind us," he pointed to several steel cabinets with locks.

"Ah. I don't mean to be rude, but, I feel really dirty, is there a-"

"Yes, you probably wouldn't enjoy mother's bathing quarters, it's... filthy, not with dirt, but-"

"I-I get it!" she stopped him, a fervent chill seeping down her forehead. With that, she shuffled up the stairs and into the living room, following another staircase and into Cartman's room. Barren walls and carpet clashed with her vision of his room. The entire place was white, but with black curtains. There was a miniature train station on a desk, but not much else. Shaking her head lightly, she entered the sparkling clean bathroom he called his own. Vanilla scents wisped her nose, forcing out a sigh of relief. She dropped her suitcase and shut the door, locking it just in case.

It was the first time all day she felt safe. She'd felt safe in his arms, but not completely. While comfort and a security provided themselves with him, she knew deep down there was a very real chance they could've died. Dipping into the hot water, her pores screamed of relief. A subtle euphoria wandered through her breaths. Everything around her was desolation and mangled with demonic dreams of fruition, but she didn't care.


	2. I feel some touch of love Amittyville, B

Chapter 2: I feel some touch of love Amittyville, Breathe

Cartman waited patiently for Wendy, his eyes glued to the television screen. Every channel held the same embedded sideshow of photographs; they were of white text against a black background. A product of the country's emergency broadcast system, urging everyone to stay in doors. Their exposition of the skyrocketing mortality rate beckoned more inquiries than necessary. The vague incentives to act and ask questions later, by means of stating a culminating war of hatred and disease plagued the countrysides, was little to go on.

He'd tried to check the internet hours before, but no connection surfaced. All he had was a phone that didn't work and a useless television. There was no supplication amiss to even his amazement, ironing the dubious nature that lurked about his out of character persona. Fain supplemented his humility, but only because of her. Normally he'd be fixated on materials, objects, but not this time.

The steam danced in and out of her pores, waving away towards the ceiling. She reached for the facet to heat the water cementing her, not bothering to open her eyes. As the knob turned counterclockwise, the water pressure increased incrementally—the serenity produced a tender ambiance that lunged at her. For some reason or another, that feeling readily dissipated at its own whim. The water's viscosity seemed to be on the verge of motor oil—as though someone had dumped in a couple of quarts. As the lids of her eyes peeked, her head was dunked into the liquid, but by nothing.

Tapping on the railing to the stairs brought Cartman's attention to a dainty figurine. Her black hair dangled dripping wet in front of her face, he felt something was wrong. She didn't show her face, her steps elongated, as though shackles bounded her to the Earth. Reaching the final stair, he stood with apprehension, his muscles tightening. Then she turned, it wasn't her, but it was. Something was just abstract about her, rather it was simply the way she looked, or the way she acted.

"W-wendy?" he licked his lips, perspiration taking effect. She was parallel to him, but he couldn't see her face. Her head was at an angle down, so her hair covered the entirety of her face. There was no answer, just heavy breathing. He blinked and she was gone; he did a double-take. Was he awake, hallucinating, dreaming, what?

Gasping for air, she gripped the towel rack with all her strength, heaving herself out of the tub. The facet had been springing gallons of blood, and much to Wendy's dismay, she'd nearly drowned in it. Some external force beyond her sight had tried to condemn her in the scarlet liquid.

"EERRRIIC!" her voice reached a pitch so high that eardrums would have bled, had they been in close range. Hearing her breaths of terror, he lunged his way up to the bathroom in his room as fast his body would allow him. She manged to drag herself out of the thick pool of blood, just barley unlocking the door for him to help her.

As he stepped into the muck, he was immediately taken aback by the atrocity beseeching him. Carnage plagued his dear Wendy, perplexing him as to whether or not it was her own blood. She somewhat stood, leaning on the wall, coughing in deep thick bursts. He aided her by supporting her waistline. He grabbed the towel from the floor and wiped her face clear of the blood.

"What happened!? Are you okay?!" he pressed, praying she wasn't in too bad of shape.

"I... I don't know. Blood poured from the masses into the tub, and... and-" she'd burst into tears, crying on his shoulder, the towel pressed between them.

"Blood poured from the..." he gazed at the facet, wondering how that could be explained.

"Something pushed my head into it, holding it there..." she sobbed, clinging to him in horror.

"Wait... you weren't just down..." his spine tingled, shivers amassing themselves over his now lost composure.

"Huh?" she beaded her eyes upwards.

"I don't think we're safe here anymore," droplets of sweat formed on his forehead, trickling downwards.

"Then... then what the hell are we going to do? Huh? Just let whatever's out there kill us?!" she began to pound on his chest, tears flowing from her cheeks.

"No, I have an idea," he smirked and titled her head up with his thumb. "There's an abandoned prison about four miles outside of town, we can seek refuge there for the time being."

"So then what? We just keep moving?" her voice was straining.

"If needs be so."

Running the facet to the sink, he cleaned her face and helped wash the blood away. As she finished drying herself, he packed a medium sized suitcase. Clothing and some supplies, nothing more. Her bag was already full from her house, so they'd completed an impromptu cycle.

"Stay, please," the voice of a little girl beckoned Wendy from the hallway.

"E-eric!" she yelped, stumbling back onto the bed.

"Huh?"

"Did you hear that?" her voice sulked, constriction unfolding.

"Ignore it. It can't hurt you if you ignore it—that or overpower it," he scolded the chunks of skin manifesting on the walls. Noticing the obscenity, she gulped and closed her eyes.

"Are you done yet or w-what?" she told herself to beg him to hurry, but didn't want to seem like anymore of a wimp to her new-found love interest.

"Yeah, just about. I just need to grab a few things from the basement."

She leapt onto him, her pigment whitening. "Are you nuts? If there's something up here, then clearly there's even more down there!"

"Hemph," he coughed with a smile. "We have to anyway, if we want to disarm the security system." She worried herself backwards, knots tying in her brain like sharp needles.

The door slammed against the wall, gathering both of their attentions. Nothing was there, but Cartman did notice the skin on the ceiling piling up; they'd be crushed if they didn't leave within the next 10 minutes. Taking both signs as an incentive to leave, he grabbed his suitcase and ushered her to do the same. They walked out hand in hand, their eyes calculating the light generated area surrounding them. A little girl rounded the armrest of the balcony, stopping Wendy. He tugged on her and narrowed his brows. Reluctantly, she took several steps forward.

"Don't you want to play with me? Aren't I cut-" the child began to say, but he'd kicked her in the gut and sent her flying down the stairway.

"Hey!" Wendy gaped in awe.

"Don't be fooled, it's not friendly," he kicked the entity's head into the wall as they turned to the living room.

Her nose was rammed up into her cerebrum, blood trickling out of her eye sockets. She was dressed in a plated navy blue skirt with a thin denim vest, her hair dropping just past her neck. Though her skull was cracked in several places, she stood dimly. "Why don't you stay and play?" her voice edged, as though it were being said through a fan.

"Ignore it!" he quickened his pace. Wendy made the sign of the cross, shuddering from the demonic voice trailing them.

"You can't ignore what won't let you!" the girl emerged from the wall, as though it were made of thick wet paint. He grabbed the girl's head and bolted it into the ground, stomping on it repeatedly with his shoe.

"I'm gonna puke..." her stomach churned in contempt.

"Oh you're just posturing, aren't you, Cartman?" the muffled sounds of the girl's voice echoed in the hallway.

"C'mon, we ain't got much time!" he grabbed her hand and jogged to the basement door.

"How do you know!?"

"I'll explain later," he said, grabbing the door to the basement.

They trotted down the stairs, flicking the switch to the lights on the way. He jumped to the keyboard nearest him and began to initiate a long binary sequence. She stood less than a foot away from him, weary of the junctions around her.

"There, in one minute and 30 seconds, it'll disarm. In the meantime, let's grab some heavy weapons."

"S-sure..." she didn't know whether to admire his courage and ability to protect her, or cower at his ludicrous stances. They moved to the steel cabinets, seeming as if they could tank a nuclear bomb. He grabbed three ammunition belts, an M-60, a Ruger Blackhawk, a noir Walther PPK/E, and an AK-107; coupled with several grenades and two Jimmy Lile "Next Generation" survival knives. "Do we really need ALL this?"

"Yeah, trust me, we're gonna be in the woods for a while," he shut the cases and turned to her.

"Well, just don't let me die, alright?" she conceded to herself, sighing at him.

"I wouldn't w-" words began to allude him as the little girl nudged his side. "Oh goddammit!" he turned to her and pointed the Ruger magnum at her jawline.

"You wouldn't." The monotonous voice of the apparition asserted.

"Oh, wouldn't I?" He pulled the trigger.

"He'yeck," Wendy covered her mouth and looked the other way.

"Let's go, we'll have trouble enough leaving," he laced his fingers with hers; she knew what to do.

They rushed the stairs, but they never seemed to end. The carpet sieged their legs, unyielding. The perspective disoriented, growing and churning rapidly, as though it weren't real at all. Was it real? His mind blinked. Wendy had fallen over, unable to continue onwards, sickened from the pace. He calmed his composure and lifted her to stand, walking gently up the elongated stairwell. That was it, they made it. Had composure been the key? Were the apparitions playing tricks on them, or was composure truly the key to overcoming them?

"I think it's time for our leave, Miss Wendy." He opened the door and escorted her through. She sighed slightly in a giggle, bemused at his ability to joke in such a serious state.

"What now? I don't see any zombie-whatever-the-hell-things around," she flicked a nod of hair behind her left ear. Her pupils were dancing.

"Yes, yes, it is peculiar. I suspect that most of them just haven't made it over the mountain passes, seeing only a few have been present," he theorized, shutting the door behind him.

"What happens when they do... make it over?" contempt swelled her tongue briefly.

"Then we kick ass."

They traveled through the snow, their tracks becoming a vestige of nature's admission. It was frigid—more than it needed to be. Frigid. A word that dived below the icy surface of cold. Maybe they wouldn't like the cold, maybe that was why so few came to South Park—maybe, he remarked in his mind.

"How much longer until we can rest?" her voice snapped his reverie, saliva clumping in his throat.

"Huh? Oh, uh, just before dusk." He'd forgotten about Wendy, even though she was by his side, occasionally bumping into him.

"That's hours away..." her stomach growled in reverence to her whining.

"We can stop to eat, I guess," she was taken aback by his sudden unsure tone.

"Is... something wrong, hun?" her voice was smooth and soothing. _Hun_. Only his mother had called him that. He hated it, but not when she said it; for some reason.

"Yeah, something is wrong, very wrong." He didn't look at her.

"What is it?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's because whatever we're up against hasn't been concise. I mean, demons or ghosts, whatever the hell was in my house? That fucking huge ass monster that wrecked your house? The zombies at the school—Christ. If it were hippies, sure, I'd know exactly what to do; but this isn't from any associated medium that I've learned. Yeah, I know the basic archetypes of what we're up against, but what's that good for? That's like fighting a kick boxer, but only knowing boxing. At first, I felt no fear, only slight contempt—the thrill of the adventure. I don't know what I feel now, things just seem complicated, if it'd just been zombies, fuck, it'd be easy to understand—for fucks sakes, even a detailed briefing on the damn things," his voice lurched, filling with the crisp cool air. Then it hit him. The classified papers. "Wait..."

"It's o-okay, I under-" she was cut off by his rapid movements toward her.

"Wendy! What happened to those papers! The one's about the mutations or whatever!?" his pulse sped up, his stomach in knots, churning up what he'd last ate.

"I, uh, I, the school? My house? I don't..." she trailed off, biting her bottom lip.

"Shit, we fucked up. Man, I forgot all about..." He clenched his fists, turning from her.

"Hey. It's okay, alright? We don't need it," he turned to her reassuring warmth. Her voice was soft and caring, it made the strong beats of his heart change polarities, from knots to butterflies. It was comforting. Love. That's what it was. He was feeling the love he'd felt from her before. Had he forgotten it in his rampant cognitive-rage? "I know some things just don't make sense, but we're doing the best we can. Whatever was in your house, it was evil. It was probably threatened by the fact we're not evil, Eric. Some people think you are, but you're not. I don't believe you are, and it seems that neither do demons themselves. Maybe we'll encounter them again, we'll cross that bridge if it comes," Wendy's voice melted his temperature, despite the subzero weather. Her hand on his shoulder was like a burning coal. She smiled as she talked, the words fluently flowing from her lips. It wasn't forced like the smiles she'd give to friends. It was genuine. "...and the mutants, whatever they are, zombies, we'll take them all out, even if we're the last people on the planet—like a movie, but from a tragic beginning to a happy ending." she embraced him as the last of her words echoed into his eardrums.

"I..." he choked on his words, pulling his body a few inches further away from hers.

"You..." She tried to piece together what he was saying, hoping it wasn't negative.

"I want you to stay at my side after all this," his words came out with a certain speed, a speed she hadn't heard from him before. Was it_ fear?_

"I don't understand. Are you thinking I'd leave you?"

"This seems like a dream to me, as if... as if this is too good to be true," she stumbled in the snow at his sentence, her brow furrowing.

"You were just complaining about how you weren't able to take it all in, as if it were too much for you, but now you're saying it's perfect?" she felt weary of him. Was there something he wasn't telling her?

"No. No. No. Don't get the wrong idea, please. I mean this only in respect to you, not what's around us, even though at times it is kinda cool. I've dreamed of you for ages, going in and out of crushes on other girls as a kid (Patty Nelson), knowing I'd never have you. Now I do, and I'm scared. I'm terrified. Mortified." He winced at his final words.

"Are you scared of... me?" she didn't know what to say, her words seemed forced, as though to avoid silence.

"Yes and no. I'm not scared of being with you, just losing you. What if this is all a dream? I'd lose you. On the flip side, what if I'm not diligent, and something kills you? I'd lose you. I don't want to lose you..." his nerves sent impulses, telling him his eyes were swelling. He'd cried before, sure, lots of times. Never though, never, in front of someone he cared about—there never was anyone. She noticed his wincing and hugged him from the back.

"I know I've said this a lot, but... it's okay. If this is a dream, then please tell me how you feel when you wake up. I won't shoot you down, I promise," her body heat radiated onto him, making his tears fall on his frozen face. "I've had dormant feelings for you, wishing the real you wasn't the selfish asshole that everyone, including myself, had become equated with." She kissed his necked and rubbed her cheek against the same spot.

"I promise," his nose swelled of indigestion, but his words were audible.

"I think we should get a move on, alright?"

The weather worsened soon after, the groves on the edge of the forest became hidden in the fog. Shale was encased in shallow ice, dangerously hidden beneath a layer of snow on a ravine. The environment was turning against them, one false step could send either of them to their deaths. The trees blended in with the fog, making navigation next to impossible. A storm was approaching from the north west. A blizzard. Maybe even hail would pelt them—they needed a shelter.

"What're we s-suposed t-t-t-to do?" Wendy's teeth chattered from the freezing air.

"Shit, if those goddamned ghosts hadn't driven us out so q-quickly, we c-could 'ave pre-prepared for this!" he clutched his sides from the wind chill seeping down his spine.

"We need to f-f-fine a sh-shelter..." she buried her head in his chest, her nose risking frostbite.

"M-mines," his voice was a murmur from her neck.

"M-mines?" she reiterated in a muffle.

"T-there!" he pointed toward an old mineshaft in the shale counterclockwise to ledge adjacent to the diminutive hallow to their right. Carrying their luggage, they lunged towards the entrance. He pondered about the guns, if the snow had gotten into any of the barrels, surely they hadn't been that careless; however, perhaps Wendy... No, that's a terrible thought.

They'd made a fire deep into the mine, hoping that they were far enough in that when the storm did pass, they wouldn't be the target of anything. Water dripped further down the shaft, echoing at them infrequently. The drops were just loud enough to hear, but not so enough to pinpoint an accurate distance. The shale had segued to what looked to be oil shale and lignite, although it was still supported by the same aged planks.

"Why did you say we didn't have much time?" her voice was ragged, sore.

"They would've killed us, something just told me so. I don't get why they let us leave though, if that was the case—something just doesn't make sense." He snuggled next to her and wrapped his arm around her back.

Their eyes grew weary, the dreary colors casted by the fire draining into darkness.

The cloudy sky shielded the Sun's rays from bearing down into the mine, much less their position within. The fire'd gone cold, but the temperature had heightened since the storm. The sound of water consistently dripping awoke him. His vision was starchy, unready to adjust to twilight poking its way from ahead. She was still snugged into his lap, purring if his ears didn't deceive him. He asked himself how long they'd been asleep, unable to gather an accurate sense of time. He propped himself off the rugged ground, the movements waking her.

"He-ay," she yawned, arching her back.

"Hey," he answered back, looking down at her.

"Is the storm still?"

"I don't think so." He turned his head to the light just barley fighting its way in.

"Think we should just stay here?"

"Negative, my dear Wenday; we'd be eate'yen alive'a."

There he goes with that stupid southern accent again—was it _intentional_? Had to be.

"Uh huh, so I take it we should get a move on then, huh?" she wiped the sand from her eyes and stood.

They traveled through the fresh snowfall, circling trees to confuse anyone that may have been tracking them. They'd noticed prints in snow occasionally, prints stained with blood. Mutilated squirrels and other animals were shone consistently throughout the forest.  
"My god..." Wendy was sickened at the sight of a cougar torn limb from limb.

"They've arrived in the mountains alright, it's only a matter of time before the town is overrun with 'em." He held her hand tighter.

The trees creaked from the wind occasionally, tensing the both of them. Luckily, neither were trigger-happy, otherwise their position would have long been given away.

"Don't go..." The wind coursed through the branches.

"Did you hear that?" She shifted her eyes around.

"I hope not." He narrowed his eyes to a slab of concrete a couple hundred yards ahead of him.

The two of them stifled towards the building, gripping their guns intensively. The walls were cracked and decaying. They'd lined themselves up against the wall, sliding across it for needs of cover. Does he think he's a Green Beret out of Fort Bragg? She couldn't help but question his methodology, although it seemed to work out for them in the end.

"Sonofabitch..." his jaw hung open from around the corner.

"What is it?" she jogged lightly over to him. Her face flushed, her eyes tangent to what appeared to be thousands of the undead.


End file.
